Icemelt
by owltattoo
Summary: Tyrion meets a new "friend" while working with the sellswords. Can he break through her frosty shell, or will he remain alone in his lust? Tyrion & OC, etc.
1. Chapter 1

The universe and characters, save from my original character, belong to George RR Martin. I receive nothing but a sense of accomplishment from writing this fiction.

* * *

The scratching sound of pen on paper stopped, and it seemed as though the tent had suddenly come alert. Tyrion looked from his numbers, a reproach on his tongue for the lazy dullards surrounding him. He noticed that all of the scribes' attention was directed to one corner of the tent, the one where Brown Ben Plumm lurked. Tyrion turned his head, expecting to see a new prisoner, a new brother, or a thief to be punished. Instead he found himself gazing upon a puzzling figure.

She was clearly not a lady, a fact which her masculine stance made quite apparent. Her breasts were high and firm from what he could tell. Admittedly, he couldn't see much as her shirt was large and unfitted. The garment, open to her collarbone, was a sheer, dusty red; he imagined the color came from the red dust surrounding Meereen. It was tucked into her breeches, which were strangely cut. While normal breeches were fastened quite high, the band of hers was below her waist. They'd clearly been tailored to her body. The boots she wore were soft and well-used. At her hip she kept a net and a long knife in a scabbard.

Despite how loose the pants were, he couldn't help but notice that her thighs nearly filled them. She was slim, her neck muscled, her shoulders wide. Her left hand was wrapped in bloodstained linen.

"You beckoned?"

Her incongruously roguish lilt startled him and brought his attention to her face. Her hair was her most appealing feature. Unlike other ladies, hers had been cut to her mid-back. It was a dark, dense waterfall of soft curls. It shone. Next he noted her eyes, grey and cold, were shrouded by her thick, black brows. Her nose was broken and crooked, her cheeks high, and her jaw square, strong. Her lips were obscenely full. When he looked at them he thought of how they'd look wrapped around his prick. It was a strange, but not unwelcome, thought.

"What ya' think this be?"

Plumm waved something small and bloody in her face.

She smirked.

"Would that belong to my dear, sweet friend Kasporio?"

The captain, livid, shouted, "An' whose else could it be, ye poxy trollop?!"

At this, her grin dropped. Her sensuous mouth firmed into a tight line, making her cheekbones sharper. She looked dangerous. She leaned in close, and whispered just loud enough for it to carry in the unusually still room,

"Why don't you tell Darius that next time he tries to shove that ugly little cock into my mouth, I'll take it with me, along with his remaining testicle."

She slowly straightened and cast her gaze around the room. Tyrion had to give her credit; the look she fixed upon his scribes did more to get them working than any words he'd ever wasted on them. Then she trained her eyes on him, meeting his stare.

She was unnerving, and he couldn't find the strength to look away.

She abruptly turned on her heel and left the tent, leaving his cock hard and his interest piqued.

* * *

Short and sweet. Maybe not sweet. This is my first fan fiction, and I'm trying really hard to take my time and make it good. I'm also trying to make it decently close to canon. I'm publishing it by scene, so when my next scene is finished, I'll put it up.

I would love some constructive criticism (or even nonconstructive, whatever). Was I too vague? Should I add more dialogue? Less? How's my writing style? Any pointers, grammatical errors, etc? I know my summary is shit, help?


	2. Chapter 2

The universe and characters, save from my original character, belong to George RR Martin. I receive nothing but a sense of accomplishment from writing this fiction.

* * *

Elspeth Pyke dismissed the woman serving her mead impatiently. The girl's height and simpering left something to be desired, and she usually spilled more drink than she poured. Elspeth had learned to place her cup on an empty table and walk away when it needed filling; otherwise she would end up wearing whatever she imbibed.

She took a long drink and set the stein down on her desk. She sat in her chair and leaned on the desktop, kneading her temples with her fingers. She simply couldn't figure it out. How in the name of the Gods had they lost 200 men in the last year and only replaced 90? She began to count on her fingers the number of jobs they had contracted and how many casualties each engendered, noting what dangers they had faced that led so many men to their ends. The death of men in her company didn't concern her. For various reasons, she had personally injured, maimed, or killed at least 10 of her comrades in her five years with the sellswords. No, it wasn't the loss of life that bothered her.

It was the loss of man power.

The Second Sons had once been one of the strongest, largest, and most talented bands of mercenaries in all of Westeros. Now, they were at best only fifth smallest, their talent had dwindled into a select few, and recruitment was getting desperate enough to sign on two bloody midgets and a feckless Ser.

She sighed in exasperation and slumped over the table, her head in her hands. If she didn't determine a way to both bolster and retain their numbers with adept killers, she may as well fall on her sword in the next battle. But she wasn't a coward, and as she began to lift her body from its defeated position on the desk, she felt strong, calloused fingers caress her neck.

She quickly stood, turning to her assailant with a snarl on her lips and a blade ready to strike. When she saw the man to whom those hands belonged, she grunted and slammed the knife through the pile of papers she'd been contemplating, pinning them to the desk.

Her companion chuckled and quickly closed the gap between them, taking her face in his hands and kissing her on each cheek, her forehead, and finally her lips. She accepted his administrations with thinly veiled annoyance, ignoring his kiss.

"What do you want, Bokkoko?"

Bokkoko leaned back, a grin on his face. Elspeth was a stony woman who always had control of herself and her situation. He used this fact to annoy her more than a boil on her backside.

"Ah, my iron darling," he sighed, taking her hands in his. She winced, her left still untended and bloody.

"What's this," he said with a wicked smile, "did you cut your pretty hand on one of your pretty blades?"

Elspeth yanked her injured extremity from his, scowling.

"It's nothing. My knife slipped. I was attempting to castrate our friend Kasporio, but instead removed only a single bollock and flayed my own cursed hand."

Bokkoko could only contain his mirth for a moment. As his laughter burst forth, she stiffened. Elspeth did not much enjoy laughter, particularly when she was its catalyst.

He was too busy guffawing to notice that she had slipped behind him, but when the cold steel of the blade met his throat, he paid attention.

"You must like me a little," he murmured wryly, "you didn't use the pointy end."

She groaned and dropped the knife. He turned toward her, his face sporting a hearty grin.

"You are an insufferable fool, Bokkoko ."

"You do me injury, my Lady Love."

Her eyes changed from cold to feral, a hearty desire alight in them that he relished more than the feel of his sword penetrating an enemy's flesh. He chuckled as he realized that soon his "sword" would be penetrating hers.

* * *

Yeah, that wasn't the most subtle metaphor I've ever come up with. Anyway.

Thank you for the review, Mrs-Imp! I took a look at the characters in the previous chapters and changed them a bit to use characters that are actually mentioned in the book. I think it lends the story just a bit more credibility.

So! This will be a long story. I have a detailed plot line, a great host of characters, drama, romance (yes, there will be steamy sex; no, the word "folds"  
-shudder- will not be involved), and -bumbumbuuuuum- death. Ideally I'd like to get out at least one chapter a week. Right now I'm equating each chapter with a page of prose in Word. I may later change this, depending on how y'all feel. I don't write it for me! Well, mostly I don't.

As before, I'd love some constructive criticism. You know from this example that I will actually consider it and address the suggestions. I think I may need to work on my dialogue? Am I too vague? Too explicit? Let me know! Thanks for reading.

PS: the serving girl is Penny : )


	3. Chapter 3

The universe and characters, save from my original character, belong to George RR Martin. I receive nothing but a sense of accomplishment from writing this fiction.

* * *

"Oh Tyrion," a thin voice sing-songed. Tyrion flinched; he had no desire to see Penny at the moment. He didn't want to hear her whine about not having anything to do, about the men saying awful things to her, about her damned dead animals. He'd successfully avoided her for two weeks; he supposed he should have expected the peace to be broken sooner.

"You just won't believe what that mean old witch said to me today."

He sighed. "What did the ol' cunny rag say this time, Penny? Did she tell you you fell short of your duties?" He giggled at the pun, knowing she'd miss it.

"No, she said I was so clumsy that I'd knock my own head off if it weren't attached!"

Tyrion could help but let out a guffaw. He enjoyed hearing the quips Penny's lady threw at her, hag that she was. He hadn't seen many women in the camp, and he often wondered which of the grizzled she-warriors he could thank for so many entertaining moments. Penny, of course, was unamused.

"You are terrible to me! I don't know why I even put up with you," she harumphed. He let out a particularly loud laugh as she stomped out of his tent. Chuckling to himself, he continued his end-of-the-day ritual: a steaming tub of water with a great mug of mead.

As Tyrion undressed himself, he began thinking about the fiery woman he had encountered earlier in the day. She was tall, but he hadn't noticed it at the time. He slid into the water. Although he find her quite attractive, he wasn't sure that a functional and literal union between the two would work. After all, he was just three feet tall; she must have been closer to six. He pondered how they would arrange themselves. Certainly she'd be below him. Anything else would be just laughable. He imagined himself between her long, well-muscled legs, stroking her sex as she mewed. He realized that he was, in fact stroking something, but it definitely wasn't her cunt. He grinned.

"May as well finish the job," he mused to himself.

He briefly wondered her name before he decided he didn't care. He didn't need it to fuck her. He pictured her laying across a pile of pillows and silken sheets, her bare breasts full and beckoning. He would tease her, he decided, truly make her beg. He would caress her nethers, finding that lovely hidden nub that caused women to scream his name oh, so well. His grip tightened on his cock as he imagined the exquisite orgasm he'd make her have. After she was good and limbered, he would climb atop her and fondle her breasts as he placed himself at her entrance, barely nestled. He would make her grovel for his magnificent cock. He'd make her say filthy, disgusting things that would make a lesser woman blush. And finally, he'd bury himself in her, letting her feel him fill her. He knew he was endowed, and he liked the wenches he'd conquered to fully understand how fully they were stretched. He could almost hear her whimpering at the fullness before she cried out in pleasure. He planned to make her wail. As his hand stroked his swollen prick faster, so did he pump into her in his mind. Faster, deeper, with more force. Until, ultimately, she'd release, squeezing the seed from his cock.

Tyrion leaned against the tub, panting. The last time he'd come that hard he'd lost his virginity.

Oddly enough, he could still hear her cries ringing in his ears. He sat up and listened for a moment, until he determined that the noise was coming from somewhere to the left of his tent. He grinned wickedly and quickly cleaned and dressed himself. He was dying to know where the easy wenches could be had. He followed the noise, noting as he drew near that it crescendoed with a shout and a name. Cocoa? Bako? He wasn't sure. As the cries subsided, so too did his trail. He stood for a moment before he felt himself thrown heftily to the ground.

When he looked up, he saw the object of his imaginings standing haughtily above him.

"Watch yourself, Imp. The whole folk are walking," she smirked.

As she walked away, he noted that her hair was mussed, her shirt askew, and her face looked freshly fucked.

* * *

So sorry it took me forever to update! Your reviews spurred the process (so inspirational!) but unfortunately I've been massively busy. I can't promise suuuper regular updates, but I'll do my best. I'd much prefer to take my time and produce something good rather than rush and disappoint you.

Speaking of disappointments! How is this chapter? Shitty? Wordy? Stupid? Let me know! I'm also curious to hear your reactions to the "sex" scene. Don't worry, there will be far more to come, with numerous pairings.

Y'all rock! I hope you enjoy this one : )

PS: Did you notice I stuck to my guns and didn't use the word, "folds?"


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